Happy Anniversary ... part 1!

I don’t even know where to start this post – there is so much in my head and in my mind and in the past few days! I’ll break this up into a few posts because so much happened that I’m having trouble sorting my head out.

I guess I’ll start with my mouth and say – OUCH.

Yes, good place to start. Auspicious, even.

Let’s backtrack. Last Thursday, I was on my knees between his legs, his cock in my mouth, sucking him. Eyes closed as per his rules. Occasionally he’d grab my head and force himself deeper in my mouth – occasionally I gagged, coughed, spluttered. But I wanted him to come, wanted to feel him pulse in my mouth.

And we were well on our way, except one of those times when he took control, we tore my tongue.

Uh…yeah. I can’t really explain it except that I tangled my tongue with his penis as he was thrusting and my tongue got shoved backwards before he made it to the back of my mouth. I felt it happen – a really sharp twinge – but oral sex like that is never comfortable and I really didn’t think much beyond breathing without gagging other than a quick mental “ow.” And then I tasted blood as I tried to move my tongue to lick him when he let me suck him again…and my brain caught up.

I managed to tear my “sublingual frenulum” which is what the little membrane that connects your tongue to the bottom of your mouth is called. It means that extending my tongue too far in any direction is painful, and it bled quite extensively the night it was injured.

To my credit, my first thought was “how can I get him off when my tongue is swollen!” which he got a kick out of, before declaring my mouth off limit til it heals. Which was fantabulous timing, since Saturday was our anniversary and we had a babysitter the whole day. Boo.

And unfortunately, it’s now been several days and while the wound is closed, it’s not healed and is still sore. Double boo =(

But Saturday brought our anniversary, a day blessedly child-free (thank you, M-I-L!), and a day booked at a couple’s hotel (it’s essentially a sex hotel, though I don’t know if it’s a regional phenomenon or if they’re throughout the u.s.). And even better, the conclusion of the ban on vaginal sex. Sentence served (no time commuted for good behavior though!).

Which meant I was desperately turned on and had been operating at that level for days. I was ready to get sincerely utterly and totally fucked.

And that meant, of course, that he made me wait.

When we got into our little cabin, he made me close my eyes and strip. He collared me and…I realized he’d made a modification. There was some kind of lead or leash attached to the collar, and that was new. I was told I couldn’t open my eyes until he told me to – and then he pushed me onto all fours and started fucking me from behind. I knew I was in trouble when I got close to orgasm immediately – I just felt –starved- for him inside me.

But instead of pushing me over the brink, he stopped, laughed and told me he was eating. I was then tied to something, my food put in front of me and told to eat. My food was messy, so he allowed me to use my hands. (I was grateful for that – it was unnerving to eat on the floor…eating without my hands…I dunno.) Occasionally, he’d reach down and stroke my hair…like I was a dog. I actually remember thinking “He’s going to treat me like a dog!” and being both startled and unnerved by that.

It felt…strange. It was the most overt expression of the agreement we made since we’ve started. It was humiliating. And somehow, oddly comfortable in a way I find profoundly discomforting. The ease of slipping into that…it felt normal. And that’s disquieting, because while I am comfortable with the idea of games that get me off, we’ve definitely long since passed the point where this is a game (at least – in my mind…I suppose it’s not my place to speak for his, although I believe we’re on the same wavelength). We’re finding our comfort levels in a new way of interacting and it bothers me that I’m so comfortable giving up my … my … my what? Autonomy? Personhood? Feminism? Self? to getting him off and…to what? Getting him off and satisfying him, I guess.

And yet as uncomfortable with how much this fit it was also really hot.

Like, really hot. It felt erotic. I felt distinctly powerless – periodic tugs on the lead reminded me I was on my hands and knees on the floor, eating on the floor by his choice and not mine because I hadn’t had one. So little but so…not little, too. Distinctly aware that whatever he told me – whatever he wanted – was his. And that was completely tantalizing, even if I was doing my best to eat a chicken sandwich, with my eyes closed, that was determined to fall apart.

When he decided I was done eating, I wish I could say he told me to blow him. He led me – by the collar – onto the bed, and directed my mouth, but it wasn’t his cock.

It isn’t that we have done rim jobs in the past, but it was a long time ago, and I didn’t like it then either. I suppose for the same reason I don’t like anal sex – it feels…icky, I guess. It took me a couple moments to work up to what he wanted, and he was patient…to a point. But far sooner than I’d like, he had me licking his asshole. And then impatiently demanding “More! Deeper!” until I was sticking my tongue in as deep as I could go, my nose and face pressed so deeply into his ass that at times it impeded my breath. I felt…even more humiliated. He had me doing it because he liked it – it was something we hadn’t done in ages because I don’t like it. And despite how much I didn’t like it, I liked that he was making me do it anyway. It’s as close as I’ve ever come to balking – which isn’t to say close, but he knew this was something I dislike. And somehow it’s hot that he had me doing it anyway.

And then, finally – mercifully - he told me to fuck him. The cabin we were in had mirrored ceilings and I know he enjoyed that, but I was still not allowed to open my eyes – and yes, I asked. Usually I can only tolerate sex in that position occasionally because riding him puts him deeply inside me in a way that gets painful. And I won’t lie, it was – but the need to fuck him was so intense that nothing was going to stop me. Even though I was setting the pace, he tugged the lead on my collar and slapped me often enough to remind me I was only setting the pace because he wanted me to. I never stopped moving, but those little moments re-oriented to me in the incredible flurry of movement that possessed me. He beat my breasts as I bounced up and down on his cock, eliciting the occasional squeals and yelps – and the immediate response of “Take it, whore.” That’s not something he usually calls me, but it worked here, and if anything pushed the frenzy up a notch. (This breast beating also earned my first and only bruise of the day, despite the intensity of the spankings and pain to follow – it’s a tiny thing too, the size of my fingertip.)

I don’t honestly know how many times I came while on top of him; I have no idea. The first orgasm came and went almost too fast – it was so, so, so long overdue and so long awaited that I felt almost trigger happy and it came up before I had a chance to savour it. He slowed me down the next time, controlling the pace a little more, and the second time I came I could feel the moisture on my thighs and on him, felt like my heart might hammer out of my chest and felt incredibly heated. If he hadn’t made me keep going I might have melted, lost in a languid haze, but I have literally lost track of what came after that. More orgasms, more pain – pinched nipples, smacked breasts, and fingers dug into my hips.

And eventually, he set the pace entirely, dictating with hands how fast I should bounce and how far out of me he should go…when he finally came, I collapsed on top of him.

And fortunately for me, the next item on the agenda was collapsing together into the hot tub  =)